Another wind, another day…

What is in that room, that solace place,
with its shield walls and silent wool carpets –
in your word head, your thoughtful think maker;
the window unlooked in upon? And then a horse man
knocks at your door and your picture is taken, and no one can
decide later who looks more like they wanted to escape the daylight.

The letters just keep coming with their inquisitions and stutters, and
what wants to implore you, too nudge and push you, make
you dream and plan, plays like a landscape radio in your
head, bringing with it an entire scene of you playing
chords in an orchestra of poets unaccustomed
to what a string or a breath might do.

My my, there again, drug out of your
silence into some kind of strange and bright
daylight, all squinty and tear eyed, with nothing in
your pocket resembling a ticket too, or away from the
word that represents the quite room in the play that you were
writing about before you were so abruptly and unkindly interrupted.

In a time like this; one of need, one of nakedness, one of confusion
about what is expected, or one where it seemed some attention
was required, you might think of the wind you felt through
your hair after overcoming some other digression, the
time you found that there was a key around your
neck, or a map stamped to your forehead.

10 responses to “Another wind, another day…”

You’ve demonstrated a mastery of line-length & form… I’m just in awe of what you’ve created here on purely a visual level, which is really cool because it doesn’t seem forced at all when you read the poem. The line-length didn’t seen to constrain you. Generally, I am a fan of all-things symmetric, or maybe that’s just my mild case of OCD talking.

I am pleased whenever I see a poet take advantage of any possible resource he or she is given. I don’t see form played with (or mastered like this) enough.

Beyond the form, there’s much that I enjoy, but if I had to pick, it would be “plays like a landscape radio in your head” – I quite identify with those words. Beginning to end, the poetic journey you’ve shared here is satisfying, much like the creative process itself (that can at times seem much like a mental disorder of its own).

Let the editors come and beg you for this poem & prove your comment on my site correct. This isn’t your mother’s typical blog fare. 🙂

krkbaker – Well thank you very much, I too saw myself looking in a mirror, then at the map, and then towards a horizon…

Poeticgrin – I too am a fan of all things symmetric…I want to tell you a long story about how this poem just fell into my lap, easy and nice. But it didn’t. It was more like it revealed itself a little at a time as I edited it.

Hi, Poetman. You have described the poet’s life perfectly. Inside the word head, looking in that window, the nakedness, the interruptions. I particularly resonate with that third stanza, that strange and bright daylight. Blinking, squinting, we’re dragged out into the world.

Of course, the ending is a powerhouse. I also love the wink and a nod of “…you playing/
chords in an orchestra of poets unaccustomed/
to what a string or a breath might do.”

There’s beautiful music throughout those lines and the entire piece. I love the form, as always. Lovely work.

Hello Julie – Maybe the sound of that orchestra will summon more to poetry, and its deep mystery, perhaps there are those who will close their eyes and ask, how can I understand that I am already part of something better…?

Poets are people with chatter in their heads that they write down. Readers are people who wonder what is meant by what was written down. And the ignorant are those who think that the buzz in their heads is something to be ignored or medicated away…

Or something like that.

We are capable of so much more than mediocrity – sometimes as conductors, or musicians, or as audience members, but there is no part to play through indifference…